


Wash Away the Morning Sun

by warriorpoet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Community: fakenews_fanfic, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-22
Updated: 2009-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3185483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/pseuds/warriorpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Postcard from a rainy morning in a New York hotel, c. 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash Away the Morning Sun

Stephen wakes up lying on his stomach, his arm hanging off the bed and curled into a loose fist, fingers not quite touching the carpet. He blinks slowly and tries to focus. He can just see Jon across the room, awake, dressed again in last night’s suit, collar open and feet bare, sitting in that rosewood-and-too-scratchy-upholstery armchair and staring out the window.

It’s too light. The room is awash with shadow, but it’s still too light. He hears the steady dull roar of rain and traffic, and he doesn’t remember where the clock in this room is.

He swallows and croaks, “Jon.”

Jon glances over and smiles, and there’s shadow there as well. “Morning.”

“Wh’timeisit?”

“Almost five.”

“Mmm.” Stephen rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. “We slept too long.”

“Yeah.”

Stephen pulls the sheet loose, lifts it up and lets it float back down over his naked body. “You’re up and dressed. How come you’re still here?”

“I was thinking maybe the rain would stop. It’s coming down pretty hard though.” Jon laughs mirthlessly and stretches out, resting his heels on the windowsill. “And at this point, what difference does it make if I come home at four or at seven?”

Stephen feels his irritation send sparks through every nerve ending. It makes his skin itch. Like Jon’s a victim. Like Jon didn’t come onto _him_.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Stephen says shortly.

“I know.”

“I mean it this time. This is wrong.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re my boss,” Stephen adds.

Jon glances at him over his shoulder and smirks, like he thinks it’s funny that _that_ is what Stephen cites as their biggest problem. “Go get dressed, Stephen. Go home.”

Stephen swears under his breath as he looks for his shorts. Now he remembers why it’s better that one of them is gone by the time the other wakes up. This argument is too absurd to have during normal daylight, fully clothed. They avoid it, for the most part.

He hunts down his pants, his shirt, a tie that might be Jon’s, but he can’t really remember who was wearing what yesterday. He takes it anyway and heads for the bathroom.

He hears Jon’s voice sound faintly from the other room before he can get the door closed.

“I love you, you know.”

Stephen freezes. He swears again, softly, and turns back. Jon is still staring out the window, it’s getting lighter now, and the rain streaking across the glass makes the shadows writhe and dance over his face. 

“I know.” 

Stephen perches on the arm of the chair and Jon turns his head and brushes his lips against Stephen’s chest, kisses, then gently bites the skin just below Stephen’s heart. 

They watch the rain fall harder, the blurred yellow taxis honking insistently on the street below, every building they can see for blocks bending and righting itself as the water streams down the glass.

“It’s the calm before the storm,” Stephen murmurs, mostly to himself, not thinking about the weather.

“Yeah,” Jon says. He kisses that same place again. “Go get dressed. We’ll go together.”

Stephen sighs, holds Jon’s head to his chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I know.”

The far off sound of thunder is swallowed by the traffic. The rain keeps falling.

They wait for it to stop.


End file.
